La Prima Notte
by Donny's Boy
Summary: April and Don finally spend the night together, and they both find out something important from the other.  20 percent smut, 20 percent sap, 60 percent humor, and 100 percent fluffy DonApril goodness.  Set in 2003 cartoon universe.


"La Prima Notte"

By Donny's Boy

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Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the plot relating to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and I am making no money from this story. I mean no harm.

Warnings: Heavy petting, implied human/mutant sexual relations, and shoddy misuse of the Italian language. But no violence, language, or anything else. Not entirely sure whether this is properly a T or M—if y'all think it needs bumping up to M, just let me know and it shall be done.

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_**Act I: "Inizio"**_

Heart thudding, Donatello stood with arms folded across his plastron. He watched warily as she fluttered to and fro around the dimly-lit apartment. She returned a book to its rightful place on the shelf in the living room, blew out the candles on the dining room table, then stopped to rearrange the flowers that he'd brought to dinner. Given that the only illumination was provided by gentle candlelight, and there was a surplus of dark oak bookshelves in the living room … in context, she somewhat resembled the official head librarian at the Transylvanian Public Library, if such a library had ever existed. Don bit back a chuckle. Every so often, she'd pause in what she was doing and glance over at him with a nervous smile.

She was stalling.

So was he.

But as a great man once said, _"There is nothing to fear but fear itself_." Of course, Roosevelt had only been facing a depression and a world war, not April O'Neil. Clearing his throat, Don decided to open with a fairly neutral gambit: "Dinner was really great."

April paused in her busywork, volleying back, "I'm glad you liked it."

"I did. The sauce in particular was delicious."

"Thanks. My Uncle Augie's recipe, actually." She smiled at him again. This time, it was a little less nervous. A little more inquisitive. When she smiled, it made her eyes crinkle at the corners in a most adorable way.

He loved when she smiled. Ye gods, how he wanted to sleep with her.

Furtively Don glanced down at himself. Glanced down at his … clothes. Though he'd worn clothes often enough, he supposed, to disguise himself above-ground, this was the first time he'd worn clothes to try to make himself attractive to a human. He wasn't entirely convinced that he'd been successful.

The white button-up shirt he was wearing _had_ been ironed, true enough—Master Splinter had insisted quite strenuously upon that—and he _was_ wearing a necktie—picked out by Mikey, who had a surprisingly refined sense of fabric and color. His gray dress pants had been borrowed from Raph, though Don harbored the uncomfortable suspicion that his brother had procured them from Casey Jones. Which was sick and wrong on at least ten different levels, no matter that Casey now had a new girlfriend of his own. Last but not least, there were Don's dress shoes. They pinched his toes in a most unfortunate way but, to the shoes' credit, they boasted a militaristic, mirror-like shine … courtesy of some shoe wax that Leo had mysteriously produced from out of nowhere.

All in all, he felt utterly ridiculous. Much like a fish out of water or, to be more precise, a turtle out of the sewers.

But then, when he looked back up in time to catch his date blatantly checking out his chest, Donatello suddenly felt a little better about the situation. April herself looked amazing, of course. She'd traded in her usual, everyday attire for a green cocktail dress that matched her eyes perfectly and that showed off her shapely calves as well as the barest hint of thigh.

Don swallowed thickly. He really, really did want to sleep with her.

"So, Donny." April finally stopped arranging and rearranging the flowers. Slowly she approached where he stood hiding, stiff and awkward, by the bookcase. "You free to stay for a while? Or do you need to get back to the lair?"

An offensive strike! Bold move on her part, and he admired her for that. Casually he told her, "Nah, the guys are all busy doing their own stuff." But maybe he should up the ante? "I'm all yours for the evening."

"_All_ mine?" she repeated softly, eyebrow raised.

His insides trembled at the dark, rich undertones in her voice. Gulping, he tried to control his breathing. Which really should have been easier to do than it was, given his many years as a highly-trained ninja. But April was close now, much too close. She stood just inches away. Just standing and staring into his eyes. Even Hamato Yoshi would have broken under this kind of pressure.

Once he could again marshal his ability to speak, Don confirmed with a jaunty grin, "All yours. Lock, stock and barrel."

And then, almost before the words were out of his mouth, her lips were on his. Don stumbled back in surprise. He'd known she was going to kiss him, but he hadn't expected it to be quite so … so _fierce_. But, heck, who was he to complain? Recovering his balance, Donatello reached for April's waist and pulled her close against him.

They'd had some practice at this kissing thing—practice that Don never ever minded unlike, say, katas or meditation—and besides being fun, the practice had also been quite practical. His mouth was a lot wider than a human's, and his lips weren't at all the same shape. It had presented quite the challenge. But Don was nothing if not a quick learner.

It hadn't taken him long to find out that it was rather enjoyable to nuzzle at April's lips with the very tip of his soft tongue. April had been delighted with her star pupil, to be sure.

In the present moment, when April's lips moved to his neck, Don shuddered involuntarily. April was a quick learner, too. Then, when she began tugging at the knot in his necktie, he chuckled. "I thought you said you liked the tie," he teased.

"I do. But I'll like it a lot better on my bedroom floor."

His eyes slid shut. This was it. As April tossed aside the tie, and her capable hands moved down to the first button on his shirt, Donatello tried to fight down a sudden wave of anxiety. He wasn't ready. _They_ weren't ready. And yet he'd known, as earlier tonight he'd tapped gently at her window while holding his bouquet of lilacs, that everything was leading towards this moment. Oh, yes. He'd known full well that tonight was going to be the night. The problem was, April was so beautiful and he wasn't even the same species as her, and she was older and wiser and—

Donatello's thoughts slammed to a halt as something he'd already vaguely realized suddenly came into crisp, clear, horrifying focus.

—and he was a virgin and she wasn't. Worse, she _knew_ he was a virgin.

But then, just as Don's panic was about to hit fever pitch, April's warm hands slid underneath the starched fabric of his shirt. Almost immediately they found the sensitive place where plastron met scales, and her fingertips lightly traced along the edge. Gasping at her touch, Donatello felt an undertow of desire that drowned out practically every other thought and feeling.

So he was a virgin. So what? Surely sexual experience wasn't the end-all and be-all in these kinds of situations. Right? After all, he loved her. He'd loved her since … well, now that he thought about it—as much as one could think with a gorgeous redhead fumbling impatiently with one's belt—he couldn't really remember a time when he didn't love her. So loving her as much as he did must count for something. Right?

He loved her. And he wanted this. Wanted _her_. And she, despite all logic and reason, seemed to want him too.

Okay, then.

Shrugging off his now unbuttoned shirt, Don ran his hands up her back and savored the lush velvety feel of her dress. Then he slipped a dress strap off her shoulder. The skin underneath was smooth, creamy. Inviting. He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss against her shoulder, earning a low moan as his reward. Continuing along her collarbone, with soft kisses and teasing licks, he finally reached the bust of her dress. There he paused, panting, hesitant but hungry.

A few strands of her hair fell across the top of his head as she leaned down, her lips brushing his ear. "Donny …"

"Hmm?"

"Bedroom. Now."

She didn't have to ask twice. Although, much later, after hearts and hormones both quit racing, Donatello would realize that she hadn't phrased it as a question to begin with.

_**Act II: "Centrale"**_

April gazed down on Don and noted, with no small measure of satisfaction, that his olive-green skin perfectly complimented her pale pink bed-sheets. He looked like he belonged in her bed. Before the night was over, she would make him belong. Would make him _hers_.

She didn't quite understand this sudden possessive kick but maybe not everything was meant to be neatly analyzed or logically explained. Though it occurred to her, in a far recess of her mind, that perhaps it had to do with Donatello's almost complete naivety. Right now she had a chance to teach him, to guide him, to mold him, that she'd never had with other lovers.

There was also undeniably the pure, raw thrill of discovery. So much of him was familiar—two arms, two legs, chest, stomach—but in many ways, those similarities only highlighted the differences. His large, three-fingered hands. His shell. His plated plastron.

Actually. About that plastron …

Sliding down on the bed, April grabbed the top of Don's unzipped pants and began easing them down over his hips, then his legs, his ankles. Donatello, meanwhile, propped himself up on his elbows and watched with barely-concealed amusement. Once the pants had been dropped unceremoniously onto the floor beside the bed, April turned a curious eye up to him.

"Do I even dare ask why or how you got hold of Casey's pants?"

He grimaced. "I'm gonna _kill_ Raph."

"Raph? What does Raph have to do with …" She trailed off thoughtfully. "Never mind. I don't think I want to know."

"No, you really don't."

Abundantly aware of the inherent weirdness in the current conversation, April decided a change in subjects was in order. "You know, Don, you could've helped a little with taking off your own pants."

He shrugged elegantly. "How come? You seem to have everything under control."

"Oh, do I?" Quickly April moved back up and, straddling him, her knees pressing tightly against his sides, looked down at the pinned turtle. Desire flamed up anew. "Do I have you under control?"

He faltered, seeming a bit startled at the sudden turn from joking to seductive. But then he reached for her eagerly and drew her down for a searing kiss. She groaned enthusiastically while her hands began exploring his body. The strange rippled texture on his sides, the thickened skin of his outer thighs, the glass-smooth plastron.

Oh, yes. About that plastron …

For a moment she paused, to let herself savor the anticipation, to speculate one last time about what she might find, before finally slipping her hand between the bottom of his plastron and his shell. She frowned. Donatello, for his part, pulled away. Quietly he studied her with intense, serious eyes.

She had imagined a lot of possibility, but she hadn't imagined this. She hadn't imagined finding …

Nothing. Nothing at all.

"April," he began, his voice sounding high and stressed, "I should have talked to you before. I'm so sorry. I should have explained about—well, actually, it would have sounded presumptuous to bring it up out of the blue—but anyways! The process of mutation didn't always, in all respects … um, you see, the reptilian reproductive system—"

"Donny."

He shut up.

"Donny, I'm the one who's sorry. I'm the one who was presumptuous." Rolling off and dropping heavily to the bed beside him, April shook her head and lay on her back. Staring at the ceiling, she muttered, "I'm such an idiot."

Suddenly Don's face was looming in front of her own. "No. You are absolutely not an idiot."

"The facts suggest otherwise."

He bit his lower lip, looking uncertain and terribly young—more like the boy she had met so many years ago and not the young adult she'd come to know and need. For several moments he remained there, propped up on one elbow, gazing down at her. Then Don's eyes lit up happily, just like they always did whenever he made a brilliant discovery.

Leaning forward, he began nuzzling her neck, and April gasped in surprise. As warm yearning once again coursed through her body, she couldn't entirely squelch a sharp, involuntary twinge of anger. It was ridiculously unsporting of him to turn her on like this when he knew darn well he couldn't follow through.

"Don, what are you _doing_?" she demanded. She tried to not sound annoyed.

Donatello glanced up with a wicked gleam in his eye. "April, I'm a ninja," he replied, as though that explained anything at all. Returning his attentions to her neck, he continued in between kisses, "And that means that I—" He kissed her shoulder. "—am very—" He kissed her collarbone. "—_very_—" He kissed her chin. "—good with my hands." Lingeringly he kissed her mouth.

As he began unfastening her bra with hands that were, indeed, quite nimble, April grinned. She should have known better than to have doubted him. Somehow she'd have to think of a way to make it up to him.

_**Act III: "Conclusione e cominciare"**_

"Wow."

Despite his better instincts, Donatello couldn't help but smirk at the awestricken tone in her voice.

"Seriously. Where did you _learn_ that?"

He rolled over and wrapped an arm around April's waist. "Necessity is the mother of invention," he solemnly explained.

"Cute. Very cute. Shakespeare?"

"Plato."

"_The Republic_?"

"Yep. You got it in one."

Yawning, April snuggled sleepily against his plastron. "It's good to know that you're picking up sex techniques from dead Greek philosophers."

"Well, I've also read some Dr. Ruth."

"Really?" she replied, sounding mildly skeptical. "I wouldn't have thought you'd go in for pop psych."

"Oh, the book's not mine—I just borrowed it. It actually belongs to Leo."

She lifted her head to stare at him. "Leo? As in, your brother? Zen master Leo?" Then her eyes narrowed accusingly. "You're lying."

"Maybe," he admitted with a laugh. "Then again, maybe not."

Her head dropped back down to the pillows again, as exhaustion won out over mock outrage, and Don listened to her soft breathing in the dark. Absentmindedly he began petting her, running his fingers through her disheveled hair. He felt that he should say something—something profound and confessional, or at least something more than a joke—but he couldn't seem to find the right words. What had just happened was … well, amazing seemed like such an understatement.

How could he even begin to explain? He couldn't. As intimately and thoroughly as April knew him, she could never understand just how special tonight was to him. So he just continued the wordless stroking of her hair, hoping that his touch would tell her what words could not.

Contented quiet reigned for several long minutes, up until April's voice suddenly sliced through the stillness of the dark. "Be honest. Mikey picked out the tie for you, didn't he?"

Startled, he let out a chuckle. "How'd you guess?"

"Oh, Donny. Don't get me wrong, I love you—but you wouldn't know fashion if it whacked you over the head with a bo staff."

For a moment Don's chest seized with a joy so pure it hurt. _I love you._ Then, letting out his breath very slowly, Donatello sternly told himself that she hadn't meant it. Not like that, anyways. And this was okay. It was enough that she was here with him now. It was, to be fair, more than he'd ever expected or dared hope for.

Still, a small sigh escaped him nonetheless.

"Donny? Are you all right?"

"Of course."

She remained silent for so long after that, Don wondered if she'd finally fallen asleep. Then, abruptly April rolled over so that she was on top of him, her face inches away from his own. Though the bedroom was quite dark, he could see a strange intensity in her eyes. Leaning close, she whispered, "Ti amo, Donatello."

At that he froze. Italian. Why Italian? Perhaps she thought it romantic. Perhaps it was easier to confess such a thing in another language. Or, heck, maybe it was nothing more or less than an affectionate nod towards his name.

More importantly, why was he worrying over what language in which she'd said it? But the answer to that he knew. It was to keep from worrying about the actual meaning of those small, powerful words. Over his relatively young life Donatello had protected brothers, friends, underground cities, a time mistress, a princess-elect, and even the entire planet. But never had he been required to protect someone's heart. Required to protect a lover.

He'd have a lot to think about in the morning. But tonight? Tonight was for April.

"Ti amo anche," Don whispered in reply, cupping her face in trembling hands. "Ti amo, April. Sempre."

She kissed him and, smiling, laid down beside him. He took her back into his arms and held her close against him. Absent-mindedly he noted that, when lying down, he could look directly into her eyes without having to crane his neck. He liked that. Just as he was dozing off, lulled by April's soft steady breathing, the phone rang.

Of course it did.

Don groaned. "Your phone or mine?"

"Yours, I think."

His hand groped along the floor for his discarded pants and, in the left pocket, he found his shell-cell. "Hello?"

"I know you stole my pants, ya little green thief!"

All of a sudden Don felt wide awake. "C-Casey?"

"Don't play dumb, Donny, 'cause you an' me both know you ain't any good at it," the irate man harrumphed. "I mean, normally I wouldn't care, y'know? Mi casa es su casa, and all that jazz. But tonight I was s'posed to take Gabby out somewhere real swanky, and when I went lookin' for my nice pants, they was gone. And Raph told me that—" Casey abruptly cut off.

That couldn't be a good thing. Cutting off mid-tirade? Nope, not good at all. Don clamped his eyes shut and began plotting the many ways he could (and would) murder Raphael.

Meanwhile, Casey sighed. In beleaguered tone he continued, "You're with April right now, aren't ya? You're with April, and you're wearin' _my_ pants."

Over on the other side of the bed, April was struggling to contain her laughter. She wasn't having much success.

"Casey, you have my word," Donatello said slowly, so as to keep his voice steady and completely sincere, "that as of this exact moment I am definitely not wearing your pants."

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Author's Notes: From what TMNT smut I've read, it seems to be pretty well-established fanon that the boys have human-like anatomy tucked under their plastrons. This story was born out of the question, "Well, what if they _don't_?" Things went from there. (Also, I never, ever get tired of Don/April, and I'd thought I'd do something a little lighter with the pair after the drama-fest that was the "Eye for an Eye" trilogy.)


End file.
